Blind Marriage
by inspirationassaulted
Summary: Lt John Watson, 25, will do anything to stay in the Army, even marry a man he's never met. It's only for two years, and he might not meet him. Sherlock Holmes, 21, is entering rehab, at his mother's dying request. He can't receive the money she left him to live on unless he gets married. He signs to shut Mycroft up. It's only for two years. How much can their lives really change?
1. Chapter 1

"Ah, Lieutenant Watson," a well-dressed man greeted John as he entered the base commander's office. He looked completely, utterly out of place in the dust and grit of Afghanistan, even on the larger base where they were. John couldn't help but try to imagine this obvious bureaucrat on the Forward Operating Base, wearing a three piece suit and leaning on an umbrella.

And who the fuck needs an umbrella in the Afghani dry season?

"Sit." The man gestured to the chair in front of him with the umbrella. "Your leg must be hurting you."

"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather stand," John replied, jaw clenched. He forced his hands to stay open and relaxed, though he wanted to badly to ball them up into fists. His injury was healed and forgotten, why did everyone keep treating him like an invalid?

"Very well." The man twirled his umbrella casually before leaning on it again. "I've heard a great many things about you, John Watson. The Victoria Cross, impressive. Congratulations."

John flushed faintly and inclined his head in embarrassment. "Thank you, sir."

"Yes, very impressive indeed," the man repeated. "But not quite the whole story, is it?"

"Sir?"

The man gave him a scolding look as he hooked the handle of his umbrella over his arm, withdrawing a little black notebook from his inside jacket pocket. "'Poses a significant risk to himself,' it says here," he read.

John went rigid in surprise. "That's my psychiatric evaluation," he pointed out redundantly.

"So it is," the man replied without a trace of surprise. "It is the very reason you have discharge papers in your back pocket at this moment." John quashed the urge to reach back and handle the papers, as he had done so often since receiving them. "Ah yes, your…singular reluctance to return to jolly old England." The man gave him a cool half-smile. "You have argued your way up the chain of command, Lieutenant Watson. Such tenacity, from a man with your impressive honours, brought you to my…personal attention."

"With all due respect, sir," John interrupted, "who are you?"

There was a brief spark in the man's cold, calculating blue eyes that told John he'd asked the right question. "Officially I occupy a minor position in the British government. Unofficially…suffice it to say I have the ability to make those papers in your back pocket disappear, along with the orders and evaluation that inspired them."

John regarded him for a long moment. This man, with his public school voice and sharp suit and an umbrella in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, this man was handing him the very thing he'd been fighting for. He was giving him a way to stay in uniform, a way to stay in the war. "And what so you want from me, sir?"

The man really smiled at him that time, seeming almost…proud. "Very good, Lieutenant Watson. Perhaps there is hope for you after all." John scowled, but the man ignored him. "Marriage."

"What, to you, sir?" John sputtered, eyes wide.

"No," the man shook his head. "To my younger brother. Our mother has recently passed, and my brother needs the inheritance money to support himself, but there are stipulations on it."

"He has to be married," John murmured, catching on at last.

"Precisely," the man nodded. "It would be a marriage on paper only, to last in the eyes of the law for at least two years, after which you may choose to divorce. Should you return to England before then, the two of you need not even live together."

"Is that why you chose me?" John asked, trying to wrap his head around the whole concept. "Because I'm not likely to go back at all? Danger to myself and all that?"

"In part," the man agreed. "For the rest…I find myself unable to predict you, John Watson. It is an exceedingly rare occurrence, I assure you. My brother needs to keep his mind occupied at all times with puzzles, and you are the most complex I have found yet."

John stared at the ground, straightening out the man's twisted, complicated phrases. "Let me see if I have this right, sir," he said slowly, and the man gave him a 'go on' gesture. "If I marry your brother, you make my discharge and that psych eval go away."

"As though they never existed," the man confirmed.

"Then your brother can get his part of the inheritance, which he needs to live on. We just have to stay married for two years."

"He will receive the money immediately," the man explained, "but it could be revoked if he goes through a divorce before the two-year period is up."

John tapped his fingers against his leg, thinking. "I want a promise that I'll spend as much time as you can give me on active duty," he decided. "Promise me that and I'll sign."

"You don't even know his name," the man said, surprised.

"I don't care," John returned. "How likely am I to spend time with him if I'm on tour out here?" he snorted. "So, the promise?"

"Of course," the man replied smoothly. "I must agree with the psychologist, you do pose quite a danger to yourself."

"I have no intention of dying out here," John snapped. He thrust out a hand. "The papers?"

The man drew out official-looking papers from an inside pocket, opposite the side where he'd kept his mysterious black notebook. He looked at them, hesitating. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He is a twenty-one-year-old recovering cocaine addict," John's eyebrows hit his hairline at that, "though I promise you he will not be returning to his old ways. You may choose to keep your own name, or hyphenate-"

"I'll take his," John blurted out, cutting the man off mid-sentence.

The man raised an eyebrow. "You will lose the name Watson for the duration of your marriage," he warned.

"I know that," John scowled. "I'd like to distance myself from my family, if it's all the same to you."

"It is your choice," the man murmured. He hesitated for just a second longer, then passed the papers over. "If you would just sign the marriage license, then."

John took the license and accepted the pen the man passed over a second later. He checked the spelling of 'Holmes' and signed on the indicated line, attempting his new last name as smoothly as he could. The name of the witness, who could only be the man in front of him, was Mycroft Holmes. Apparently his new (late) in-laws had a thing for archaic-sounding names.

Mycroft accepted the license back with a smile that might have had a touch of real warmth in it. "Welcome to the family, Lieutenant Holmes," he said, shaking John's hand. The name sounded strange and unfamiliar, but it also sounded like a new start.

"Please, Mycroft," John grinned, "call me John. We're family, after all."

-0-

"Sherlock, you cannot honestly expect to support yourself without this money," Mycroft said, his frustration finally break through. They had been having the same argument for nearly two hours.

"I'd rather sell myself," Sherlock snapped, scratching his neck with shaky hands. He hated withdrawal, even more than he hated the endless dull expanse of brain-eating boredom that had been his life before cocaine.

"You will not!" Mycroft roared, slamming his fists down on the table between them. Sherlock flinched, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling protectively. Mycroft sighed. "You are here, by your own choice, because of what Mummy asked."

"As she was dying," Sherlock muttered rebelliously.

"Why is this any different?" Mycroft asked tiredly. "She updated the will when she fell ill, just two months before she died. It's two years, you can keep your name and may not ever see him, so Sherlock Holmes, _sign the damn papers!"_

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, trying desperately to ignore the tic under his right eye and the burning itch spreading across his chest. He heaved an enormous sigh, more suited to pubescent angst, and slid the marriage license across the table to him. "Tell me about this…" he glanced down, eyebrows rising in surprise at the name. "He took my name?"

"He expressed a desire to distance himself from his family," Mycroft explained, smugly calm now that he was getting his way. "Legally still John Watson, until you sign that, twenty-five years old. Educated at St Bartholomew's and scoring within the tenth percentile on his exams, an RAMC Lieutenant, no doubt soon to be promoted, and the next recipient of the Victoria Cross."

"You're marrying me off to a war hero," Sherlock fairly growled.

Mycroft smirked. "Mummy would approve."

Sherlock sneered at him, scratching at his chest in a short, frantic burst. "What could you possibly offer this man to make him marry a barely-legal coke addict?"

"I merely showed John a way he could benefit himself."

"What did you give him?" Sherlock repeated angrily.

"I gave him what he wanted," Mycroft replied casually. "He stays in the Army, without a rather damning psychiatric evaluation, and spends as much time in Afghanistan as I can possibly arrange for him."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, absorbing the information. Very aware of Mycroft's gaze on him, Sherlock lowered pen to paper and signed, his hand shaking in a way that had nothing to do with the two days since his last high.

He slid the license back across the table, and Mycroft snatched his left hand, stuffing a ring on his finger. "Congratulations, Sherlock." He tossed a sealed envelope down in front of him and put the license away in a folder. "Mummy would be proud."

Sherlock picked up the envelope as the door swung shut behind his brother. The staff member who had been watching them escorted him back to his solitary room. He flopped down on his single bed, running his fingers across the edge of the cheap paper.

_To Sherlock Holmes_

It was a cramped scrawl, slightly smeared; the writer was left-handed. The letters were pressed deep into the paper, but still faded in places; he'd used a cheap pen. The envelope was faintly gritty, the dust ground in where the writer's hand must have rested; it was writing in a place where dirt and grit were unavoidable.

Sherlock opened it slowly.

-0- -0-

_Sherlock,_

_I don't know if you want to hear from me at all, and that's fine. If you don't want to have any contact with me during this __marriage__ strange arrangement, just don't bother to reply. I don't mind if we never speak, but it felt wrong to not send at least one letter._

_I suppose Mycroft will have told you about me, so I won't be repetitive. I haven't asked for a picture or description of you and I won't, because I don't care about looks. I've asked that Mycroft not show you any pictures of me, but I'm sure you could convince him to if you really wanted._

_I hope you don't mind that I've taken your name. I have a bad history with my family, my father especially, and this arrangement gave me the chance to finally cut my last association with him. Even after __our divorce__ the end of our arrangement, I want to keep it. Besides, John Holmes has a nice ring to it._

_I don't really have anything else to say. If you reply, I'll keep writing. If not, this will be the last you hear from me._

_Lt John Holmes_


	2. Chapter 2

John didn't have many nice outfits. He stared at the mirror again, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. Burgundy button-up tucked into black slacks. It felt strange to be out of uniform, felt wrong. He should be wrapped up in the reassuring weight of his fatigues, not this thin cotton. He should have heavy tan boots on his feet, not old black dress shoes on their way out of style.

He tugged at his collar again. It was just the stress. He was about to meet his husband for the first time. Anyone would be stressed, right?

Somehow John doubted that anyone was in a position like his.

It was nearing the end of May. Nearing two years since he'd met Mycroft and signed the marriage license. He'd been John Holmes for nearly two years. It was his first leave since then, and after asking at the end of three letters in a row, Sherlock had finally agreed to meet him. They had to discuss what to do, now that two years were almost up.

His marriage might end tonight. John sighed and ran his fingers across the chain of his tags on the back of his neck, the cool metal calming him. At least he still had the Army.

Sherlock fascinated him. His first letter, the reply John had never thought he would have received, was full of his deductions about John, all drawn from the tiniest, most insignificant details. His writing was…almost mean in tone, but John had still found it amazing. He was sure he gushed in his second letter, but it seemed Sherlock had warmed up to him after that. He'd written that most people got angry about his deductions.

John never was 'most people.'

After two years of letters, usually one a week, he was loathe to lose that. If that meant staying married to Sherlock…well, they'd have to agree on that. He would have to see how that evening went.

Could he say he didn't hold some affection for Sherlock? He only knew him through his letters. Sherlock was snarky, sarcastic, and incredibly intelligent. He wasn't like other people, and he wasted no time pretending he was.

He could say that, but he'd be lying.

The shrill electronic ring of his mobile interrupted his thoughts. It wasn't a number in his contacts.

"Hello?"

-0-

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table top. He wasn't any more patient clean at twenty-three than he was high at twenty-one. He had never been patient, not even as a child.

Angelo came by again, trying futilely to hide his curiosity about Sherlock's situation. It was becoming increasingly apparent, and Angelo was looking increasingly pitying.

John wasn't coming.

"Still waiting?" Angelo asked. "Sure you don't want anything?"

Sherlock stopped drumming his fingers and sighed. "I'll have a glass of white wine," he decided, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands. Angelo summoned a waiter with a snap of his fingers and Sherlock received his wine.

John was nearly an hour late. Maybe Sherlock didn't know much about social rules, but he knew enough to know John was being quite rude. He had been the one to ask for a meeting, fairly beg for one in fact, and yet he was the one who couldn't be bothered to show up.

Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn't a little hurt.

He had been thinking about their marriage. The prescribed two-year period was nearly over. June first was their legal anniversary, since that was the day he had signed the license. John wanted to meet and talk about what they were going to do, whether they would divorce or not.

Sherlock was leaning toward the 'or not' option, actually. He didn't wear his ring, keeping it on a chain around his neck instead, and he never talked about his husband like most spouses did incessantly, but he'd grown…used to the idea of being married. As much as he despised sentiment, especially in himself, he could not get rid of that little thrill in his chest whenever he received a letter from John.

It was pathetic how the sight of a simple envelope, half covered in stamps and faintly dirty, brought an uncontrollable smile to his face.

Sherlock sighed again, pulling a velvet box out of his pocket and turning it over in his hands. Inside was John's Victoria Cross. The ceremony had been quiet, barely noticed by the media. Very little was said about the events that led to it, and, if Sherlock was truthful, he was still curious. They had given him the medal, since John was still in Afghanistan, and they'd had to wait until Sherlock had completed rehab.

Mycroft had even kept the media from running any pictures of John. Sherlock still had no idea what his husband looked, or even sounded, like.

Sherlock's phone rang, high and shrill against the busy murmur of the restaurant on opening night. The screen displayed John's temporary number, which they had traded in case of emergency. Sherlock scowled.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, I'm really sorry." John's voice was higher than his, a tenor to his own baritone, and rushed with what might be stress or nerves. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't call sooner."

"Why?" Sherlock ground out. This wasn't exactly how he wanted to hear his husband's voice for the first time, as he rushed out apologies and excuses. There was a loud voice in the background of John's side of the call, garbled like a loudspeaker. "Why are you in a hospital? You aren't being treated, the staff would have called me first, so it's someone else who has you listed as an emergency contact. Who?"

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. Sherlock liked to think John was in awe. "You're fantastic, you know that?" Sherlock fought down a smile, his cheeks faintly pink. "Harry, my sister. She's an alcoholic. Someone found her passed out in the street an hour ago, they brought her in and had her stomach pumped."

"And your morality won't allow you to leave her side while she's there," Sherlock concluded. "It's only nine o'clock now, she has enough time to be treated that they'll release her mid-morning tomorrow. We could still meet for lunch-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "I'm sorry."

"No, John, it's perfectly understandable to miss dinner because your sister's in hospital. You were right, we should meet. It's been almost two years now, we need to talk-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted again, more insistently. "I can't. I'm…I'm being deployed again. My flight leaves tomorrow at noon."

"Oh." Sherlock could feel his face going blank, shutting down. John was silent on the other end, apparently waiting for Sherlock to say something more, but he had nothing else to say. Why should he? He couldn't change it. John's deployments were two years long. If they divorced, John would no longer be his husband when he was next in England.

If he came back at all. Sherlock was not unaware of the psychiatric evaluation that had nearly gotten John discharged before.

"Sherlock, I'm really sor-"

Sherlock hung up on him. Then he gathered his jacket and left the restaurant.

John called him twice more that night and once just before noon the next day, but Sherlock never answered.

-0- -0-

_Sherlock,_

_I don't know what I could say to earn your forgiveness. We should have met, but Harry ruined it. She's ruined most of my life by now. Should I have just left her there and gone to you anyway?_

_I don't know if I could have done that._

_I said I wanted to meet so we could talk about our __arrang__relatio__ marriage, but that was secondary. Really I just wanted to see you. I wonder if you look like Mycroft. I always picture you as tall, like him, and thin, a leftover from your cocaine days, but I know I could be completely wrong. I've told you before that it doesn't matter to me what you look like, and that was the truth._

_Your mind is beautiful, no matter what your face looks like. I wish that wasn't the way I heard you for the first time. I should have seen you shape the words, not over the phone as I apologized. _

_I wonder if you know how singular your voice is. I hear you say my name in my dreams._

_All these things aside, we still need to talk about our marriage. Honestly, I can't see myself having any sort of traditional long-term relationship, so that isn't a reason for us to split. I like the idea of being married to you, even if we haven't met. I understand if you disagree, and I leave the final decision entirely up to you, but I don't want a divorce._

_Maybe I'm crazy, but I think we could be good together, even when the Army isn't an option for me anymore._

_With that out of the way, I should explain the other things in this package. Obviously the twelve sealed vials are full of dirt. Mycroft took it upon himself, just once, to tell me about you. He mostly wrote about the experiments you did as a child, before the drugs. I remembered the one about soil analysis. He told me it was a sort of ongoing thing, that you did it to solve crimes. I don't know if you'll ever have to deal with Afghan dirt, but maybe you'll get a case with an international terror cell or something one day. Anyway, all the vials are labelled with GPS coordinates, the nearest base or village, the date they were collected and that day's weather. I've been collecting since Mycroft told me, so I could give them to you as a birthday gift. I hope you like it._

_The other thing is my old set of tags. My Watson tags. I wish we could have met in person, but I can't change that now. The only thing I can do is send you the biggest piece of myself I have, my old tags. For as long as I can remember, all I wanted to do was be an Army surgeon. I was so proud to get these tags. They proved I could be somebody, all on my own. They mean a lot to me, and I think it's only right my husband has them._

_Sincerely and still apologetically,_

_John_

_-0- -0- _

_John,_

_I'm sorry. I don't want a divorce either._

_Sherlock_


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock,_

_Happy Anniversary, I guess. It's been three years. I think I've found a gift you'll like. Enclosed are pictures of nineteen similar surgeries performed here on base. I wonder if you can pick out my sutures. If not…enjoy the gore?_

_Afghanistan is Afghanistan, and the war is war. Not much has changed out here. The Royal Marines had another rotation, so my drinking buddies went home. Now I have to find new ones._

_How is it going with Scotland Yard? Has that DI let you on scene yet? I bet you've run through most of the cold cases by now. At least the interesting ones._

_Starting to miss England,_

_John_

_-0- -0-_

_John,_

_DI Lestrade finally brought me to a real scene yesterday. The case was barely a five, but it's so much better dealing with a crime scene, rather than just photos. I solved it in less than five minutes (basic murder of passion, the wife's lover killed the husband, they were going to abscond to France with the insurance money, simple) but the point is that Lestrade has finally decided I'm trustworthy enough to bring on-scene._

_I know you enjoy my processes, so I suppose I can go through them with you. The husband was bludgeoned to death with the lover's nightstick, which was part of his job as a stripper. The lack of fingerprints and disturbed objects around the house showed the killer's obvious familiarity with the layout. No sign of forced entry, so he had a key. The husband didn't know him, since his body showed defensive wounds. The use of the nightstick was an obvious attempt to lay blame on a member of the police force, but the diameter was smaller than an official nightstick and the wounds didn't have the kind of shattering that would indicate the heavy weight of a real nightstick. A look at the wife showed obvious signs of an affair (mostly in the red marks around her knuckle, where she worked her ring off her finger) and Lestrade arrested the lover, who confessed as soon as he was in custody. He claims he had just found out she was married, though how he could miss the obvious signs, and murdered the husband in a fit of pique. They then made a hasty plan to elope to France._

_Lestrade is a reasonably intelligent man and a passable detective, but the rest of his team are imbeciles. Sergeant Donovan is obsessed with the thought that everyone is overlooking her because she's a woman. Really it's because she has no idea of the creativity of killers and should be considering marriage to the Met Officer's Handbook. Anderson, on forensics, is quite possibly the most idiotic man I have ever met. He's having an affair with Donovan, which apparently Lestrade did not know until I pointed it out._

_I don't believe the two of them will ever consider themselves my 'friends.'_

_I've decided to pickpocket Lestrade when he gets annoying. Enclosed is his badge. I'll get others, I see this as a long-term activity._

_Sherlock_

_PS- I miss you. I'm not sure that's right, since we haven't actually met. Perhaps it's better put as I wish you were here._

-0- -0-

John pressed his forehead against the cinderblock wall, listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line. It was four a.m. in London, he was probably asleep and wouldn't-

"Sherlock Holmes."

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Hey, Sherlock."

There was a pause on the other end, full of international static. "John?"

"Yeah, it's me," John smiled, even though Sherlock couldn't see him. "I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, I haven't gone to bed yet. I was composing, it helps me think."

John stared at his watch again blearily. "It's 4:17 in the morning for you," he said incredulously.

"And it's 8:47 in Afghanistan, and you clearly haven't been to bed yet either," Sherlock replied. "Would you rather have woken me up?"

"No, no," John said. "No, it's just…I was surprised. That's all."

Sherlock hummed, and faint static filled the silence again. "Is something wrong, John? You've never called before."

"I should have," John murmured.

"Neither here nor there," Sherlock told him. "You're obviously exhausted, but something happened to make you think of your husband. Something traumatic enough to make you call. What?"

"It's…" John rubbed a hand across his forehead. He slid down the wall, leaning against the cool block. "Sometimes I really hate it here." Sherlock said nothing, and John took it as an indication to continue. "Two days ago there was some shelling in a nearby village, and I was part of the team that went out to treat the civilians there. It was all part of an ambush." He covered his eyes with his free hand, trying pointlessly to block out the images of the day. "They were waiting for us to go back for a follow-up," he choked. "They were killing the families, the _children_, they didn't care who they hit. God, Sherlock, it was _awful_."

There was another static pause. "I'm…not good at providing comfort, John," Sherlock said slowly. "I don't know that there is anything I could say that would make this better. I can't make it not happen."

"Of course," John sighed. "I know that. I…I just wanted to hear your voice. It's been over a year, you know."

"I play the violin," Sherlock burst out suddenly, speaking so fast John thought he had misheard him.

"What?"

"I play the violin," he repeated, slower this time. "It's what I compose on. I, um, I could play for you. It might help."

"Uh, sure," John said, too tired to follow Sherlock's thought process. "The line'll cut us off soon, but yeah, I'd like to hear you play."

There was some rustling as Sherlock set the phone down, then the strains of a classical violin piece floated through the line. Even accompanied by static and the occasional lags and cut-outs of the base phone lines, John could tell Sherlock was talented.

So, after thirty-six straight hours awake, John found himself on the floor, tears in his eyes, listening to his husband play for him thousands of miles away.

-0- -0-

_Sherlock,_

_I'VE BEEN PROMOTED! _

_There isn't a time or a place for an official promotion ceremony out here, so it's more like a field promotion, but I'm a captain either way. It's fantastic! I finally get some rank to pull, and the major will let me start leading the medical missions outside the wire._

_Sorry I don't have much to write. I'm being rushed right now, and Bill Murray is practically dragging me out of my chair to go celebrate, but I wanted to write you first._

_Captain__John Holmes  
(I like the way that looks!)_

_PS- I loved hearing you play the other night. It was amazing. I'll try to call you more often, I like hearing your voice._

_-0- -0-_

_John,_

_Congratulations. Of course, they'd be stupid to pass you over for a promotion. You're a highly-qualified surgeon and a good officer, an obvious choice._

_There's that whole thing about having the highest military honour awarded by the Crown, which I suppose is important. I still have your medal, by the way, though you wouldn't want it sent to you. You'd be too worried about losing or damaging it. Or having it stolen. I've put it on the shelf, next to the skull._

_Enclosed is a flash drive. On it are recordings of a selection of my favourite violin pieces. I've included some of my own compositions as well._

_Bad days are to be expected when at war._

_Sherlock_

_-0- -0- _

_Sherlock,_

_Merry Christmas. I know you'd probably say something like 'Don't be ridiculous, John. Christmas is merely a flimsy, religion-based excuse for retailers to entice the masses with comparitively low prices, thus parting fools from their money,' but I like Christmas and I fully intend to share the Christmas spirit with you for as long as you read this letter._

_Bill and I went out with the Royal Marines last night and got spectaularly pissed. It really is only Welshmen that can sing while they're drunk._

_Is it snowing in London? I like to imagine that it is. I've always liked a white Christmas._

_You seem fully engrossed by your study of tobacco ash, so I've sent you as many different brands of cigarrettes and pipe tobacco as I could buy off the Afghani soldiers and contractors. Hopefully one of them is one you haven't found yet. You sounded really excited over that bunch you got from India._

_I told Bill about us last night. I'm pretty sure I was under the influence of eggnog, but he seemed pretty alright with it. He might have had some eggnog, too. We never said anything about keeping it a secret, and I wear my ring all the time, but I haven't told anybody before. I can't believe that anyone else would understand. Bill even admits he doesn't get it, but it's nice for someone to know, you know? Just in case._

_Still hazy from eggnog (and whatever else the Marines kept buying),_

_John_

_-0- -0-_

_Happy New Year, John,_

_At least it will be when you get this. You're right, I have never regarded Christmas with any special joy, but I can see how you would. Every family is obligated to be happy and normal on Christmas._

_Enclosed is another flash drive. On it are recordings of twenty-three well-known Christmas carols._

_I've found a new flat. The landlady is giving me a discount, since I helped her out when her husband was arrested for nine serial murders in Florida. My assistance got him the death penalty. Mrs Hudson is surprisingly easy to talk to. I've told her about us, the only person I've told. I suppose we should each have a confidant, of sorts. Mycroft shouldn't be the only one who knows, the privilage will only inflate his fat head further._

_It's a good flat. You could see it when you're next on leave._

_Sherlock_

-0- -0-

John didn't know what was going on anymore. He didn't know where he was or why he was there. His entire world had melted away, narrowing down the pain and blood and the gaping hole in his left shoulder.

He clamped down on a scream as he sat up, checking on the man he'd been crouched over when the bullet his it. No pulse. The bullet had torn through him and lodged in the right side of the man's chest, probably ruining a lung. The man would have drowned in his own blood while John was fighting to stay conscious.

"John!" He vaguely registered a shout in the distance, coming closer. Bill Murray's worried face filled his vision. "No, c'mon mate, you gotta stay with me. C'mon, war hero, don't make the next one a posthumous honour."

"Sh'lock," John slurred.

"Yeah, that's right. You gotta stay for Sherlock." Bill kept up the stream of encouraging words as he desperately applied field bandages to John's shoulder. One of the Marines they drank with spotted them and rushed over to help Bill move him into a truck. John gritted his teeth as the movement jostled his shoulder, but the ride in the truck wasn't any better. He flickered in and out of blackness. "They're gonna send you home for this one, John. You can finally meet that husband of yours, the crazy man with the violin. You're set, you know that. You've got a husband at home already, and you didn't even have to look for him."

"Letter fr'm Sherlock," John mumbled. "Left pocket." He always carried the last letter from Sherlock in the inside pocket of his jacket. If it happened to be the side over his heart, so what?

Bill searched through his bloody jacket, pulling out a stained letter and a Scotland Yard ID badge that was mostly bullet hole. "Do I even want to know why you have a police ID badge?" Bill asked incredulously.

"Sh'lock gave i' to me," John chuckled faintly, as the truck bounced over the mountainous ruts in the Afghan roads. "He pickpocke's L'strade when he's 'nnoying."

"You're right," Bill laughed. "I don't want to know."

-0- -0-

Sherlock mashed the button on his phone, scowling. Mycroft was calling for the fourth time in a row. "What, Mycroft?" he snapped. "I'm not taking whatever case you can't be bothered to spend time on."

"It isn't a case," Mycroft replied, "and I very much think you'll be interested in this."

There was only one thing Sherlock could think of that would interest him that would reach Mycroft first, to make him so persistant and bring that faint touch of stress to his voice.

"John," He breathed, sitting up sharply. "What's happened to John?"

"He was shot." Mycroft went straight to the point, unusual for a man who enjoyed tying people up in verbal knots. "The bullet went completely through his left shoulder. He was in surgery when I was informed. I do not know anything else, but I am expected a call when he is out, or should any complications arrise."

Sherlock couldn't breathe. His hand had risen, outside his control, to clutch the tags around his neck with white knuckles. "John," he choked, unable to say anything else.

"You should be here when they call, Sherlock," Mycroft said. There was a gentleness in his voice that Sherlock had not heard since Father died. "I'll send a car."

"Hoo-hoo." Mrs Hudson knocked on the doorframe as Sherlock ended the call. "I heard you pacing about, so I thought I'd bring up some tea." She took in the pale, terrified look on Sherlock's face. "Oh dear, what's happened?"

"John was…shot," Sherlock managed, and Mrs Hudson dropped the tea tray onto the kitchen table, pressing her hands over her mouth. "He's alive, but…"

"Oh no, oh goodness," she flustered.

"Mycroft's sending a car," Sherlock muttered vaguely.

She immediately rushed about, collected his coat and shoes and pressing them on him. "Of course you must go. Be with your brother, the two of you must be worried sick!" He pulled the coat on over his dressing gown, never having bothered with getting dressed that day. He stuffed his bare feet into his shoes as Mrs Hudson pushed him out the door, stumbling down the stairs and into an anonymous black car.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted him, faintly pale himself. "John is strong. He will survive this, just like he has survived everything else."

Sherlock just stared blankly at Mycroft. "I haven't even met him yet."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock paced restlessly. He had been restless since John had been shot, and Mrs Hudson often tutted at him for 'torturing' his violin at all hours of the night. It had been almost a month since that awful day with Mycroft, waiting on a scratchy, static-filled international call and Sherlock hadn't relaxed since, but he was especially restless this morning.

John was back in England.

He had called the night before, to arrange a second try for dinner at Angelo's. He sounded…off. Rough, different. Being shot had changed him, Sherlock could tell. John had willingly bound himself to a man he had never met to stay in the Army.

Now there were two metal plates holding his shoulder together, and not even Mycroft could stop the discharge from going through.

There was something else, too. Sherlock could hear it hiding in his voice, in the tense silences. Something that John hated, that made him hate himself. Something Sherlock couldn't figure out.

Of course, there was so much about John that he couldn't figure out, from the very beginning. He had received the Victoria Cross, the highest military honour possible, but still wanted to stay in a warzone. He was the kind of person who sent pictures of surgeries and bottles of dirt for gifts, just because Sherlock was the kind of person who would like them. How could he know Sherlock so well without having even seen him?

Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa, picking up the file Lestrade had left on the coffee table. He rilfed through it, glancing at the photos he'd already studied. Perhaps a trip to the Bart's lab would be a suitable distraction.

-0-

John sat stiffly, fingers clenched on the edge of the hard mattress. There was nothing wrong with him. The injury was long gone, healed over years ago, before he was married. It was just the manifestation of stress, left over from the last time he'd received discharge orders. There was nothing wrong with his leg, if he just stood and walked it would fucking _work_, it had to-

His knee buckled under him, and he caught himself on the bedside table. Pain shot through his leg, making him grit his teeth.

_"__Fuck!"_

-0-

"How fresh?"

Sherlock tuned Molly out as she said a number of meaningless phrases that generally boiled down to 'fresh enough.'

"Excellent," he said vaguely. "We'll start with the riding crop."

Sherlock put his most intense focus onto getting the correct variations of force in his strikes. The post-mortem bruising that occurred within a very short time period would make or break Lestrade's latest case.

He was careful not to mess up his suit, though. It was his best, since he was going straight to Angelo's as soon as he was done.

Molly said something painfully chipper when he finished that he didn't bother listening to. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it." She stumbled awkwardly over something else Sherlock ignored. "Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." His mind was back on dinner with John that night, with what might happen, and he was taking in random details and letting them fall from his mouth again.

"I just, um, refreshed it a bit." Sherlock hummed absently, checking the time. He had about two hours, enough time to analyse the foreign matter samples he'd taken from the scene. If the post-mortem bruising turned up nothing, it would provide a second lead. "Would you like to have coffee?"

Oh. Yes, coffee would help. Caffine, hot and sweet. "Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

-0-

"I really can't stay for long, Mike," John tried again, stumping along behind him.

Mike just laughed. "I know, but you really have to meet this kid." The elevator doors dinged shut and Mike pressed the button for the fifth floor. "He should still be in the lab doing his…whatever it is he does. His thing. He's a riot. It won't take long, I promise."

John checked his watch again and shifted uneasily. He wanted to be at the restaurant before Sherlock, to make up for last time. "Alright," he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. It was going grey quickly. Did he ever tell Sherlock that? Would Sherlock care? He always thought of Sherlock as someone who grew up posh, based on his brother and his public school accent. God, and he was wearing an old jumper!

Distracted by his worrying, John hadn't realized they had reached the lab until Mike ushered him through the door. A handsome young man with wild, curly hair was bent over a microscope. He started to glance up and John quickly tore his eyes away, chanting Sherlock's name in his head.

"Bit different from my day," he muttered vaguely, looking at the unfamiliar machinery instead.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the young man said, not looking away from the eyepiece of the scope. "Mine's in the morgue and I'm in a hurry."

John stopped dead, nearly dropping his cane. That voice…he knew that voice. It was the baritone rumble he'd heard once a month, late at night while the base was asleep. It was the sharp public school accent he remembered blunted by poor connections and international static. His left hand clenched unconsciously, his thumb running over the familiar gold band.

_Sherlock?_

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.

The man shook his head. "I prefer to text. Really, Mike, in a hurry."

Mike laughed and handed over his mobile. "Got a date?"

_Do you have a date, Sherlock? With me?_

The young man's lip quirked, though his eyes remained on the message he was busily typing into the phone. "Of a sort."

John snorted. The man's (he wanted, he so wanted, this glorious young thing to be Sherlock) eyes flicked to him. His nose wrinkled up in a curious little frown, and John thought it was adorable.

"Oh!" Mike chuckled. "Sorry. This is an old mate of mine, John Watson."

The man's eyes went wide, and there was no way he couldn't be Sherlock, not with a reaction like that.

"Holmes," John croaked, barely able to breathe. "It's John Holmes, actually." Mike's mouth dropped open.

"John?" Sherlock asked, barely more than a breath. He raised a hand and stepped forward, then paused uncertainly.

"Sherlock," John returned, smiling. He reached out to take Sherlock's hand, closing the distance between them.

Sherlock made a noise that was almost a sob and hugged John tightly. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, not even annoyed that Sherlock could rest his chin on John's head. He could feel Sherlock press his nose into John's hair, where he seemed to be smelling him. "You're so odd," John chuckled, suddenly aware of the lump growing in his throat.

"Odd or not, you're stuck with me," Sherlock rumbled. He leaned back and studied John carefully. John knew he saw everything, just like Mycroft, but his gaze held more heat and fascination than Mycroft's cold, impersonal scan.

"Not to interrupt what looks like a very special moment," Mike interrupted, "but does anyone mind explaining?"

"Go away, Mike," Sherlock said, still staring at John with those extraordinarily pale eyes.

John slid a hand up his arm to his neck, finding the chain there. He tugged it out from under Sherlock's shirt. His old tags clinked gently against the gold ring strung there. "These are my Watson tags," he breathed. He spun the ring, stroking the smooth reflective surface. Not like his, scratched and worn dull from Afghan grit. "You don't wear it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It didn't seem real. Your tags did." He unhooked the chain and slid the ring off, holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Here." He put the ring in John's hand, surrendering his own left hand. "We might as well do one thing the normal way."

"Normal is boring," John grinned, quoting one of Sherlock's letters, and pushed the ring onto his finger.

They both jumped at the sound of shattering ceramic and a sharp gasp. A mousy-looking young woman in a lab coat stood by the door, hands over her mouth. A shattered mug lay in a puddle of coffee at her feet. "Oh my god!" she squeaked. "I'm sorry, I didn't know! I was just- I didn't- What's-"

"Molly, do stop rambling," Sherlock said carelessly. He turned and gathered up his coat, still speaking. "John, I'm finished here. We have a reservation at Angelo's."

John stuck out a hand, taking pity on the shocked girl. "John Holmes."

"Molly Hooper," she replied, taking it gingerly. "I work in the morgue. Sorry, are you…?"

"Dr Holmes and I have been married for three years," Sherlock rattled off, then looked at John with a thoughtful expression. "That's right, isn't it? I was twenty-one."

"And I was twenty-five, that's right," John agreed. "You know, I should probably figure out what day is our anniversary."

Sherlock heaved a sigh, leading the way through the door. "Anniversary, dull. It's June first."

"Yes, so dull you've remembered it for three years," John shot back, grinning. He heard Mike burst into laughter as the door swung shut.


End file.
